HAPPY DAYS by Samuel Beckett
No one sings the metaphysical blues quite like Samuel Beckett. Both his novels and his plays are one long threnody. He grieves because God does not exist. But he is not perfectly certain that God does not exist, otherwise why a title like Waiting for Godot? Is God AWOL?
Beckett has touched a responsive chord in an age of self-indulgent pathos. Fate is stern; it demands a hero. Self-pity is soft; it only asks for a man to look in a mirror and recognize a victim. All the "pity poor little me" folk, all the partisans of the...
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